


A Moment Too Soon

by Argyle



Category: The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
Genre: Christmas Party, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:20:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment Too Soon

All the animals were in agreement: it was a jolly day for a Christmas party.

Indeed, it seemed the entire world was aflutter with talk of Toad’s grand plans, or if not the world, then at least the lands about the River, the backwater, and the Wild Wood. This was fine by Toad, who in those days was yet satisfied to have the admiration of his neighbors, rather than the recognition of that unknown expanse which lurked like a spectre beyond the blue horizon, the Wide World.

“The sun is shining, and the snow is not so very deep,” the jays and crickets chirped, to which the hedgehogs and field mice dutifully replied, “Say what you will about Mr. Toad, but he has certainly gone out of his way to show us a good time this year.”

And he had, rather.

Toad procured fine lace for the table settings, and ruddy silk ribbons for the eaves. Fir wreaths were hung here and there throughout the manor, as were garlands and great evergreen boughs bound heavily with winter berries and bright glass baubles. There was a tree in every room, or nearly so; he’d had them chopped down the week before, and they filled the air with the sort of heady scent that would have been quite at home in the airy stone halls of ages past. He ordered the fires lit, and kept them burning quite merrily through the long afternoon. There were plates of crumpets and platters of cheese; roast beef and honeyed ham and orange-glazed duck were prepared in his sprawling kitchen.

He supposed there would be a hundred guests, or more. He would spare no expense.

And so it came to be that he stood before the grinning hearth of his front parlor, paws held out before him more for the lingering sensation of warmth than to stave off the chill. He wore his best waistcoat of red silk, and a frock of deep blue velvet; there was a sprig of holly and a white chrysanthemum at his buttonhole. Every minute or two he would glance over his shoulder, and then, seeing no one about, he hazarded a peek at his pocket watch.

On the wall before him hung his father’s portrait, as well as the Toad family coat of arms, adorned in greens. The burning logs in the fireplace clicked and clacked like a pair of metronomes.

“Almost,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Doubtless, they’ll all be arriving soon. And then what a fine time we’ll have! What routs and excitements!”

It couldn’t be said that Toad was a gentleman of patience, for he was not. But nor could it be thought that he was so full of pride to think his friends were not entitled to a period of grace in which they weren’t branded as latecomers, or worse yet, _tardy_. Still, he could not shake the feeling of dread which seized his heart each time the grandfather clock in the adjoining corridor struck the hour: six, seven, and then eight.

In the intervening moments, he read and read again the Christmas cards which stood open upon the chimneypiece: one from his tailor, a man to whom nothing was more sacred than the wallet of a well-to-do animal of certain taste, one from his great uncle Tiberius, a cantankerous old bullfrog who lived on the Isle of Wright, and one from his friends, the Rat and the Mole. They’d each signed the card in turn, the Rat with his steady script which ebbed and flowed like the lapping of waves, and the Mole with the wide, looping, earnest hand of all that is alive within the Earth.

But even they did not come.

Toad paced back and forth, eventually holding his breath and glancing out the window to see whether his guests had not mistaken his carriage house for Toad Hall. This wouldn’t have been possible during the day, for who indeed would mistake a carriage house -- even Toad’s carriage house, which was no ordinary sort of carriage house, but rather a grand affair in its own right -- who indeed would mistake it for the glorious, wonderful, _magnificent_ , and terrific sight of the manor?

“They wouldn’t, and no mistake!” Toad cried, and checked his watch once more.

And they hadn’t. The carriage house was quite dark but for the four fine candles which illuminated the second floor windows. They cast the surrounding grounds in gold, though where here there might have been an elm, or there a sturdy old oak, he could see naught but the straight expanse of snow.

It came down in clouds, and in came down in cascades; the boathouse and dock were quite shrouded by the gale.

Toad felt warmed by the sight of it. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, a sensation of clarity and newness came over him, and he at once knew he ought to make the best of the situation: he stepped back and sprang forward, hopped right and bounded left. It was not quite a jig, but it was close enough.

“O, if only they could see me!” cried Toad, never pausing in his dance. “If only they knew what a splendid time they were missing, what manner of foods I have prepared that will never pass over their lips, and what a beautiful picture the landscape makes -- all the better to be inside! Why, there must be two feet of fresh snow. Perhaps more!”

It would surely snow through the night, so dense and so wide were the clouds which loomed overhead. But this posed little difficulty for Toad. It was well-known that Toad Hall was a good place to be during any sort of inclement weather, though of course _this_ was something quite special.

Presently, Toad was struck by an idea. He stopped in his tracks, a slow smile brightening his features, and said, “I wonder...” He grabbed up a glass of claret from the sideboard, drank it down in one long gulp, blinked twice, and began to imagine:

Here was his ballroom as it blossomed and bristled with laughter and conversation. There was Lord Darlington and Lady Elderbourne.

“Hello, sirs,” said Toad. “Hello, my dear ladies. I trust you’re enjoying yourselves. My, but what a marvelous scarf that is, Mr. Brackenridge! Is it from the Orient?”

To which Mr. Brackenridge only replied with a succinct nod of his head, for Toad could not be expected to do all the work himself. And yet he did enough to keep his own spirits high. He drank yet more claret, and hummed to himself with all the pomp and charm of a string quartet.

Toad smiled. When he turned to admire the Christmas tree, he was not at all surprised to see that yes, a string quartet had indeed taken up residence beneath its well-adorned boughs.

“Play some Handel, my good fellows, there’s a fine sport!”

The quartet played Vivaldi.

Toad took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes, but then caught himself. Vivaldi was better than Handel, wasn’t it? Of course Vivaldi would do quite well, and certainly the guests seemed to be thoroughly delighted with its lilting pulse.

As he strode back into the thrall, his heart set on a smackeral of conversation with Viscount Eiderdown -- Heavens, he thought, but the man hadn’t changed a bit! Not since Toad had known him when he was but a tadpole, and certainly not since the Viscount had passed away in the War -- a pair of figures caught his attention.

“Ah! Ratty! And Mole, too,” said he, meeting them by the fireplace. They were not dressed as richly as his other guests, he noted with no small amount of humor, but he was glad to see them, just the same. “Hello! Happy Christmas!”

The Rat was shivering, but he made a valiant effort to hide it; he rubbed his paws together and stomped his feel, all the while shaking snow free from his shoulders and cap. “Hullo, Toad,” he managed.

“My friends, what a delight it is to have you, and not a moment too soon. I didn’t think you would come! Here, let me take your coats. You’ll catch your death if you leave them on, and no mistake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Toad,” said the Mole with affection. His eyes were star-bright as he grinned and helped the Rat untangle himself from his long brown ulster. When the Rat in turn helped the Mole out of his own cape, the task was not quite so straightforward, as the bow at his throat had become a snarl somewhere along their journey; by the time they were through and had passed their coats along to Toad’s butler, Toad was feeling a might impatient.

I don’t see why my imaginings must always be clouded by menial tasks, he thought glumly, and folded his arms across his chest. But then again, no: even in dreams his friends had minds of their own. And of course, in order to change minds, Toad knew one must first have them.

“It’s snowing so fiercely,” exclaimed the Mole as Toad handed him a mug of hot cider. “There were many moments when I thought we would be lost forever.”

“No.” The Rat shook his head and smiled. “Only until spring.”

“Well, Ratty is so very _skilled_ at navigation. I say -- I don’t know what I should do without you.”

The Rat’s whiskers twitched at this, and indeed, it seemed that he would laugh, but then he said, quite simply, “It is well.”

“Well!” Toad clapped his paws together. “Now to introduce you to the others. I trust you’ve not met Lady Elderbourne. You’ll find her a delight, to be sure.”

“Lady Elderbourne?” ventured the Mole.

“Only the finest woman in all of Derbyshire! She’s just over there.” Toad pointed sweepingly across the room. “Do you see?”

The Rat and the Mole shared a glance.

“There is no one but us, Toad,” said the former, to which the Mole added, “Unless they’ve all gone away to dine. There _will_ be food, won’t there, Mr. Toad?”

Toad shook his head dazedly. “No one here!” he coughed. “But of course there is! I sent out invitations Tuesday last, and even Lord Darlington was pleased to accept.”

“With a snowfall like this,” said the Rat, “it’s a wonder _anyone_ came. You know very well we could have stayed at home. We’d be abed with a warm fire rolling, wouldn’t we Mole?”

“Yes,” the Mole said solemnly.

“You’re here?”

“As much as Toad Hall is a _here_ rather than a _where_ ,” mused the Rat. His eyes took on a far-away look, as though he was gazing at something a rather long way away. “Of course, I suppose it’s also a _when_ , because when we look back on this night, we’ll all remember it was the week before Christmas Eve, and not any other eve. There’s nothing like looking back and not having a _when_ to point at and say, ‘Yes, that was _there_.’ And then there’s there. In fact, I always say...”

Toad drew in a breath, only then realizing his folly. Lord Darlington hadn’t come, and nor had Lady Elderbourne and Mr. Brackenridge. He, the Rat, and the Mole were quite alone in the grand ballroom of Toad Hall, and all his guests vanished like wisps of mist upon the plains. He felt his cheeks coloring, and it was with an act of will that he kept his fists unclenched.

“Ah!” he laughed forcibly. “Well, you are rather late. My dear, but it is after nine--”

“The storm,” his friends broke in at once.

“--and I can _hardly_ be held accountable for finding ways to amuse myself. Why, our banquet has grown quite cold.”

The Rat adopted a stern expression, but said nothing, and the Mole shifted towards him so that their shoulders were nearly touching.

Toad grinned, laughing again, “O Ratty, do not look at me that way. You know my temperaments! Always ready with a joke, eh?” He glanced between them eagerly. “I entreat you to dine with me. You both must be quite hungry by now.”

“Was that _honeyed ham_ I smelled when we arrived?”

“Was it?” asked Toad. “My good Moley, it was indeed. There’s honeyed ham, roast beef, and orange duck, potatoes and gravy, cranberries and fresh greens. There’s mince pie and mushroom pie, chestnuts, yams, raspberry jam, and loaves of fresh bread.”

“And for dessert?”

“Plum pudding, plum cake, candied plums, halved plums in wine sauce, and petit fours.”

“O!” cried the Mole in ecstasy. He pulled off his cap, rocked back on his heels, and smiled. “Will it be just us, then?”

And it was.

Toad had not exaggerated in his description of their meal, and each animal piled his place high with all that was within reach.

Eventually, Toad asked of the Rat, “But you’ve not yet told me why you were so late.”

The Rat chewed thoughtfully for several moments. Then he said, “Have I not?”

“Ratty insisted we go to Mr. Badger’s, but he would not come!”

“I wanted to make certain he was well. As you _know_ , Mole and I care deeply about the good health of our neighbors, especially in such a time as this.”

“And how was the old chap? It’s been such a _very_ long time since I’ve last seen him,” said Toad, spearing a bit of potato with his fork.

“Ah. He’s--”

“He said your parties bring out the very worst in him!” cried the Mole.

“Society,” the Rat clarified. “He hates Society.”

The Mole’s eyes grew wider. “Mr. Toad, if you don’t mind my asking, what _did_ happen at your party last year that so shook up Badger? Nothing _bad_ , I hope.”

“My party last year...” Toad’s brow knit, and his eyes unfocused as he tried to remember. There had been _many_ parties in the intervening months: birthday parties and garden parties, musical soirees and literary salons, parties he’d held at Toad Hall and parties he’d hosted on the banks of the River. His toes curled at the thought of all the fun he’d had. But the Christmas party? No, he could not place it, and because he couldn’t place it, he was sure it couldn’t have been so very important. It was a pity that Badger felt it necessary to make a veritable mountain out of a molehill. “Wouldn’t you know,” he murmured, “I think I’ve--”

“It was a _dreadful_ ordeal,” the Rat broke in. “It made all the papers.”

“Did it?” Toad stared across the table wonderingly. “Did it indeed?”

“ _I_ didn’t see the papers. I should like to know-- Ouf.” The Mole smiled sheepishly, leaning down to rub his knee. “I am sorry, Ratty. I had forgotten.”

“As you ought to have,” said the Rat. “Now not another word on the subject.”

Toad smiled to himself, buttering a slice of dinner roll before continuing, “ _I_ don’t read the papers either.”

“Why is that?” asked the Mole.

“Because he’s always in ’em, I should think.”

“I’m not!”

“Well. Only when you’ve got yourself in trouble.”

“O, Ratty. Not you too! There’s nothing like a ghost to ruin one’s spirits.”

“If you’re looking for a row, Toad, this hardly...” The Rat trailed off. He became quite still all of a sudden, and attentive; his eyes were focused, and his ears were perked up. “What was that?” he asked softly.

“I didn’t year anything,” Toad drawled.

But the Mole was similarly transfixed. “The wind. It must have been the wind.”

The Rat shook his head, waited for another long moment, and then shrugged. “What was I saying?”

“You were talking about boats again,” said Toad, the knit sliding away from his brow.

“Was I?”

“Yes. Lots of boats. Oodles of them.”

The Mole’s nose twitched self-consciously. “The papers!” he said. “ _And_ you told Toad not to start a row.”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” grumbled Toad, “this is _my_ party.”

“And how grateful we are you invited us.” The Mole nibbled a slice of sugared apple. “You don’t know how cold it can get by the River.”

“But I do! I have always said, as our dear Ratty knows, that there is no substitute for two-hundred years’ worth of comfort and style.”

“Hmph,” said the Rat. “And _I’ve_ always said there’s nothing like-- There it is again. Did you hear it?”

This time, Toad noticed the low scrabbling sound which emanated from the hall, and beyond that the ballroom. It was at once like claws on bare ground, or a tree limb against a wall, and also dark and gruff and like nothing Toad knew. He contemplatively sipped his wine; the scrabbling became a knock, and although he would have liked nothing better than to murmur his words, he had to raise his voice several octaves in order to laugh, “The wine’s getting the best of us, I think.” A pause, and then, “But I don’t hear anything at all!”

Without another word, the Rat and the Mole pushed back from the table, leaving their napkins in hasty disarray on their chairs, and dashed from the dining room. Toad, never one to miss out on a bit of excitement, or indeed, never one to not be a good host, darted after them.

On the floor beneath one of the high windows lay a shivering, shuddering pile of snow, and beneath the snow lay a fashionable tweed jacket and wool trousers, and beneath the jacket and trousers, as was clear when he lifted his great head, lay the Badger.

“My goodness!” cried Mole, as he and the Rat helped him up. “It’s a wonder you’re all in one piece.”

The Badger sniffed and shuffled his feet; then he shivered shuttered some more. “What a storm,” he said. He blinked several times, glanced between the Rat and the Mole, and at last said to Toad, “Is this all there is?”

Toad smiled serenely, ignoring the question. “So good of you to come, Badger, but I am rather perplexed as to why you didn’t simply come through the door.”

“If I had come through the door,” grumbled the Badger, “then I would have been announced. And if I had been announced, I would not have come.”

“Well, no harm done,” said Toad. He made sure that this was so as he said it, but yes, the carpet was free from mud, and the window had not been broken. “I hope you’ll stay with us long enough to eat! Cook has a way about him.”

“Yes, what a glorious meal it is. Why, we’ve been at it for hours, and still not tried everything,” said the Mole.

“Mm,” the Rat agreed. He placed his paw on the Badger’s shoulder, and led him to the fireplace. “None of that running off business, eh?”

The Badger was silent for several moments as he unwound the long, red scarf from about his neck, pulled off his gloves, and shook the snow from his fur. Then he said, “I’ll have brandy.”

Toad was happy to oblige.

Soon, they sat together in the dining room once more, laughing face to face with their plates piled high and their glasses ever-full. The Badger, Toad noticed, tried some of everything, and then some more; every so often, his mouth would almost betray the smile he so skillfully held back. Toad longed to say things both outrageous and delightful, if only to allow his friends to share in his merriment.

The manor remained quite warm through the passing hours, but only as the fires were well tended and the feet were lost in this dance or that game. At the Mole’s suggestion, Toad retrieved his phonograph from the attic, as well as a stack of dance records that had been all the rage in America several years earlier, and which still had all their original packaging.

“It isn’t that I no longer like them,” Toad said, “but rather that there are so many things! Why should one waste one’s time living in the past?”

“They sound _very_ new to me,” replied the Rat. His tail twitched with the rhythm, and now and again he shook his head as the Mole tried to pull him into a dance.

Toad simply grinned at this, and poured yet more wine, resetting the needle on the record. He was dimly aware that the Badger had left the room somewhere between the dessert course and the first strains of the second record, though he only thought to go look after him when the Mole requested more water crackers.

The corridor was cold and dim, and the shuffling sound of his feet echoed against the high ceiling beams as he traced a path towards the larder. He hummed as he walked; he asked himself questions only he would know the answer to. And then, when he came to the library, he paused in the soft rectangle of light which seeped out from beneath the doors.

“But what could that be?” he whispered, all the while knowing it could be no one but the Badger. He didn’t knock as he entered; he had long ago learned the various cricks and creaks of Toad Hall, and which hinges might be opened in the dead of night without betraying the path of the sneaker.

Although Toad entered the library but rarely, he was certain these were just those sorts of door. He held his breath. They didn’t make so much as a sigh.

The Badger was seated in a high-backed chair by the great oaken desk, a book open in his lap and a smile curling his mouth. His eyes scanned over one page, and then another; the nip of the paper as he turned the leaves was crisp in the still room.

Pushing his paws into his pockets, he crossed the room and looked down over the Badger’s shoulder at the lamp-lit scrapbook. “My mother put that together,” he said, after a long pause. “She was quite devoted to it, when I was young.”

The Badger didn’t start at Toad’s unexpected appearance. Rather, he glanced over the rims of his spectacles, and tapped a yellowed newspaper clipping with the tip of his finger. “Your father,” he murmured, “was a good fellow. Certainly the best I’ve ever known.”

“The entire world thought so! He made every evening edition, or so I thought. And _that_ was _before_ he entered the Ministry,” Toad said. And then: “Did you know him well?”

“He was several years ahead of me at school, but he was always _kind_ to me.”

“Do you know, I thought it the scrapbook been lost years ago.” Toad reached down and flipped to a new page: Thaddeus J. Toad, Senior stood with the wind at his back in Hyde Park. He looked rapt, and proud. “But then I found it in the attic last month. Well. It’s rather started me thinking.”

The Badger arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“O, yes.”

“About what?”

“We-ell, he always said that one must seize the moment, and that there’s no time like the present,” said Toad. “Have you ever thought about racing tracks, Badger?”

“No.”

“They’re quite interesting, you know. Racing tracks.” Toad felt that old feeling of newness quicken his blood. He gave the Badger’s paw a tight squeeze before laughing eagerly, “The din of the track! The roar of the engines! The cheer of the crowd!”

“Hmph,” the Badger scoffed, allowing Toad to lift the scrapbook from his lap. “ _Society_.”

Toad nodded. “Exactly! That’s it exactly,” he said. “And only the best kind.”

“The best kind is none at all.”

“Ah, but I see what you’re up to. We shall talk about this tomorrow, shan’t we?”

“Tomorrow?”

“You don’t expect to set out for the Wood tonight, do you? You must all stay here. What a jolly time we will have! Games, routs, and excitements! The house will be full, or nearly so.”

“One night,” the Badger said gravely. “And only because of the wind.”

“We’ll be snowed in for a week. Unless, of course, we take my automobile...”

The Badger sighed. “A week?”

“You can have the Galahad suite,” Toad continued briskly. “And Ratty and Mole... They must be wondering where I’ve gone off to. Why, I daresay they’ve likely grown quite bored!”

If the Badger noticed the glint in Toad’s eye as they made their way back to the ballroom, he made no mention of it.


End file.
